


Daybreak

by rekishi



Series: No Home Should Be Shrouded in Darkness [2]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Brothers, Cabbage patches, Elf/Human Relationship(s), Families of Choice, Hair appreciation, King Bard, Late Night Conversations, M/M, Unconventional Families
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-01
Updated: 2015-09-01
Packaged: 2018-04-18 13:32:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4707731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rekishi/pseuds/rekishi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kingship is a burden and a privilege, as the Elvenking well knows. Yet it is also to be celebrated with wine and ale and intimacy. The hours after Bard's coronation bring memory, new revelations and the realisation how irrevocably Thranduil has bound himself to the King of Dale's bloodline. Crowns are heavy, cabbage patches are put to new uses, Men still will never outdrink Elves. A normal night in the Kingdom of Dale.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Daybreak

**Author's Note:**

> Second part! Of course there would be a second part, I've seem to have lost the ability to write standalone stories. Oh well. For those of you wondering, yes there will be a third part as well, making it a proper trilogy!
> 
> One note, still I'm working with conjectures from the extended Tolkien canon and especially for the timeline I'm relying on the book canon. The movies mess a little bit with certain things and Tolkien put a lot of thought into his stories and I feel more comfortable working off of those.
> 
> As always, thanks to carmenta for looking this over, and thanks to roguewrld for audiencing.

"King Bard," Thranduil said and stepped up to the knot of people surrounding their new king, "will you spare me a moment?"

As if on silent command, everyone dispersed within seconds and Bard blinked a few times at the sudden quiet before he spoke. "The power of Elves?"

"Just so," Thranduil told him with a smile and gently herded him into a side passage and shielded him from casual glances. The feast in honour of Bard's coronation was about to start in the great hall built especially for such purposes, but they had some time to spare yet. Besides, Bard was the king in question, nothing would start without his presence. Yet he looked worried and as if he could use a moment of quiet before they started. Thranduil brushed a speck of lint off his shoulder, rested his hand there to keep a point of contact. "You should relax, this is the easy part."

Bard glanced at him as another group of people went by without paying them much mind, or more likely they intentionally didn't notice the two them. Not that he would break that to Bard "Easy for you to say. No one just crowned you king."

"I came into my position under much more dire circumstances," Thranduil admonished. When Bard made to apologise he shook his head and amended, "I also have been king for three thousand years by your reckoning, the novelty has worn off considerably. How does the crown feel, King Bard?"

"Heavy. I'm also constantly afraid to move my head and lose it." 

"It is a burden that reminds you of your responsibilities. However, it will get lighter as time passes." Then he smirked. "I rather have to say it quite suits you. Or as you might say, it is very fetching."

Bard raised both eyebrows at this small flirtation before giving him a lopsided smile that conveyed affection much more effectively than mere words could have. "Is that so? I shall heed your advice, that I will once more count on, if I may. I guess at least I get to take it off in bed, even if my growing responsibilities are not that easy to set aside?"

"Oh, you absolutely should put it in its proper place then, lest it gets in the way of things," Thranduil told him in a low rumble.

For a moment Bard's eyes darted over Thranduil's shoulder and when he didn't see anyone he leaned in to briefly brush their lips together in a contact barely even there. "Later," he promised with a smirk of his own. "We have a feast to attend. You wouldn't believe it, but the meddling Elvenking from the Woodland Realm is to blame for this, he insisted on having me crowned."

Thranduil turned as Bard walked by him and they fell into step with each other. "I assure you, the King under the Mountain had a hand in this as well. You should think about retainers to ease the burden somewhat, it will be impossible for you to oversee everything yourself."

Laughing, Bard shook his head. "Dale is a city state, I hardly think that will be necessary. Have you talked to Legolas?"

A group of young people passed them by. The Men of Dale and the Rohirric refugees had mingled, and they had accepted the Dwarves into their midst; they laughed and the Men acknowledged both Bard and Thranduil, but went their way to the great hall, leaving the two kings to themselves. 

Thranduil's gaze followed them for a moment before studying Bard's profile and shaking his head. "And you talk about meddling," he mused and felt more than saw the nonchalant shrug that answered him. Bard had been responsible for Legolas' appearance at his coronation, but they both knew he'd done it as a favour to Thranduil. "Not yet, his brothers have whisked him away, hopefully to get attired properly for your feast."

"Not all of us can have chests full of garments to change every hour of the day," Bard pointed out in what he probably felt was a reasonable tone. Still that did not excuse Legolas' dark cloaked and dusty riding garb when even Aldarion and Lucan—habitually traveling light and without finery—had been properly dressed for the occasion. "And don't think I didn't notice what you gave to the girls."

Thranduil shot him a mild smile. He had brought two tiaras of fine silver filigree from his realm to give to Sigrid and Tilda to use at official functions when they would be present as princesses of Dale. He knew Dáin had cursed his own short-sightedness for not thinking of something similar and having to yield that field to the Elvenking. Bard had not approved at this newly kindled animosity, yet Thranduil had relished to get one up on the Dwarf once more. He shook his head. "That argument is no longer valid. Besides, you are the king now, your daughters need to reflect their status."

Those words earned him a grimace as well as a slightly pained look from Bard. "Did you have to remind me?"

"Yes," Thranduil told him, smile replaced with a stern expression, and then repeated his words from earlier that day. "You will not deny your people."

"No," Bard said with a long exhale, "I do not plan to." Then his mood lightened as they entered the great hall, already half filled with Men, Elves and Dwarves. He surveyed the various kindreds milling about in groups, a slight smile on his face. "We've come far in these few years. I'm not sure how to repay all those favours."

Thranduil shook his head as they slowly walked along the length of the room to the far wall where the kings and guests of honour would be seated. "We struck a bargain, I merely am keeping my side of it."

The glance he received in answer told him King Bard of Dale wouldn't believe for a second that this was Thranduil's sole reasoning, but he let it be for the moment. The only acknowledgement of it was the hand he rested briefly between Thranduil's shoulder blades as they took their seats at the table. 

Seating had been arranged with tables in long rows along the length of the hall and one row in front of the far wall, reserved for the king's family as well as the King of the Woodland Realm and the King under the Mountain, whose respective families had been seated close for easy conversation. 

Bard had learned quickly how to show his strength; on his right was seated Bain as his heir, attired in fine clothes he was ill at ease in, and next to Bain was Dáin. On Bard's left was Sigrid, then Tilda and Thranduil. Thus, the King of Dale's family was flanked by the two powers that currently guaranteed Dale's safety and had legitimised Bard's right to rule. At least Bard perceived it so, though both Thranduil and Dáin knew better if, since Bard was still the Dragonslayer and the descendent of the late Lord Girion. Bard still insisted that without Erebor and the Woodland Realm he wouldn't be able to hold on to a Lordship, let alone claim a crown. Eventually he would realise it was his own power that guaranteed his rule. Thranduil idly wondered what Girion would have to say about the crown on his many times grandson's brow, but at the same time knew the Dragonslayer would find his ancestor's approval. 

Next to him, Tilda was chatting animatedly with Lucan, Aldarion's Rohirric companion, the youngest son—albeit a bastard—of the King of Rohan, Fengel. They talked about horses and the lands beyond the Celduin, and about Rohan. A few times Lucan seemed to have to wrest himself away from memories, his pale blue eyes losing focus and, though Tilda did not seem to be notice the few seconds between the words. He did not look a prince, a lot less than Aldaron did even in his rough travel garb, but he did have the bearing. 

Thranduil had belatedly realised that this was what had always confused him about Lucan, his clearly aristocratic demeanor in a young man so clearly bereft of his own identity. As far as Thranduil had fathomed, Fengel had exiled his bastard son the day he came of age with no more than his horse and meagre provisions. When pressed for an answer, Aldarion had confided that he had happened upon Lucan half-dead and beset by bandits in the wilderlands and only later learned of how he had come to be there by himself. It appeared Lucan was banished and to be executed on sight within the borders of the horselands, and Aldarion had first taken pity on him before befriending him. Lucan had been—still was—too young to make the decision to follow Aldarion on his endless travels, but there was no place for him to go safe death, since he was not even sure he would be welcomed in his half-brother's presence, who himself was in voluntary exile.

Even so, or maybe because of that, the young Rohir displayed an enormous patience with Tilda and her endless questions. She talked excitedly about what the people of the north called Mirkwood, Thranduil's realm, and while the expression in Lucan's eyes was a complicated mixture of sadness and envy, he smiled and nodded, asked questions of his own. Tilda clearly considered Thranduil's halls as much home now as she ever had the Long Lake. It reminded Thranduil that Bard was right about his investment in this family going beyond mere contracts now. However, the Lords of Dale who had come before Bard had been reasonable to work with and on friendly terms with their Elvish neighbours. 

"To see you cooperate with the Naugrim, father," Aldarion said in their own tongue, pulling Thranduil away from his silent reverie. "I wonder whether we should behold it as a miracle."

Thranduil raised an eyebrow and answered in his most haughty tone of voice, "You are not too old for consequences if you keep that up."

"Do you want to give my rooms away, too? You already gave Legolas' rooms to Sigrid and Tilda, so unless Bard plans to have more children in the near future I doubt I have to worry too much," Aldarion returned, smirking at his little brother sitting on his other side.

"You know," Legolas interjected, "I would have made space if you had asked me, no need to send me to the Rangers."

By Thranduil's side Tilda, who had listened to their conversation, perked up, hardly able to hide her excitement. "Do you think I'm going to have more siblings?"

At the started glances of both Legolas and Aldarion, Thranduil couldn't help but chuckle. Truly, they should have anticipated this; he had not kept the girls in the Woodland Realm for two years to not teach them anything. Whether it be numbers or language, bow or sword, both of them had eagerly soaked up anything he and his people had been willing to teach them. Even Bard was almost fluent in Sindarin by now, aided by Thranduil only speaking Westron anymore when absolutely necessary. Mortals, with their limited time, sometimes needed to be coerced for their own good.

Then he reached out to tuck a stray strand of hair that had loosened from a braid behind her ear and answered, "That is something you will have to take up with your father, but unless something changes dramatically I doubt that is a consideration." 

Mildly disappointed she wouldn't get out of her role as youngest child after all, she went back to bragging to Lucan about her proficiency in horseback riding. The young Rohir kept indulging her and even leaned in to hear her better over the din of the great hall. 

With one last shake of his head, Thranduil turned back to his sons. "They all have learned our language, to varying degrees."

The one with the most catching up to do yet was Bain, but even he could find his way around with some fumbling. 

"So I see," Aldarion said with a smile. "I shall guard my words as I did when my brother was young."

"Then I foresee many broken bones in Tilda's future, and many healing efforts in mine," Thranduil told them with a heavy sigh that made Aldarion grin ruefully and Legolas grimace and Duinhir laugh quietly. Aldarion as the second of three had often goaded Legolas into sometimes foolhardy endeavours that his brother had often simply been too young or inexperienced for. Most of the time it had ended in little more than injured pride and bruises, but Thranduil had not forgotten the day he had carried a Legolas barely old enough to not sit on his father's lap anymore back to their halls after healing two broken legs, the little Elf crying against his chest. Aldarion sometimes was still sorry for that incident. 

The feast began not long after that with Bard expressing his gratitude to his citizens and his esteemed guests of honour, but that was the last of the formalities for that day. Both Thranduil and Dáin had said a few words at the coronation to settle any issues anyone might bring up at a future point, but the evening belonged to the new King of Dale.

The food—for the coronation day would double as the harvest festival this year—started to be carried in and Thranduil used the moment to catch his youngest son's eyes. "Tell us how you fared on your way west," he asked Legolas. "Aldarion will have heard that tale already, but after all you kept us ignorant."

They locked glances briefly; the acknowledgement of the mistakes he'd made were were written in Legolas' eyes, although this could not be all that would be said of it. However, for the moment he merely launched into a story that started on the day of the battle for the Mountain. It turned out Legolas had gotten sidetracked after taking the High Pass through the Misty Mountains before the early snows of the season made them impassable. Scattered Orcs had come upon him and Legolas had therefore never made it into Imladris before midwinter.

That part of the tale was met with a certain degree of contempt from Duinhir, who broke off his tirade mid-sentence after his wife obviously kicked him under the table. Thranduil gave her a small smile and she winked at him just as the food was put in front of them. In the past Alairë often had tempered Duinhir's occasional hotheadedness towards his brothers, an impatience that had only settled after they had children of their own. She'd always possessed a patience beyond her years, a trait she had inherited from her father rather than her mother, who eternally challenged Thranduil during council sessions.

"I'm still not sure why you told me to go there," Legolas finished for the moment.

Said the Elf who had not wanted to return to his home in the first place. Thranduil kept his counsel, as pointing out those facts as well as wanting to keep his children safe from harm would only have provoked another argument and Thranduil wished to spare everyone for this evening. Ever since Aldarion had left to follow his wanderlust and only visited—sometimes only once every few years—matters had grown a little more fraught as the centuries passed. Legolas was still looking for his place in this world, as the guard had apparently not satisfied whatever urge he felt inside himself. This had been easier for Thranduil, whose path had been determined once his father had settled them this side of the Misty Mountains.

Meanwhile, Duinhir admonished his youngest brother that he had brought this upon himself and that he should just return with them to the settlement at the fork between the rivers. While Legolas nodded mechanically, he didn't seem to agree with that suggestion, his answers were laconic and clearly unwilling, lips pressed into a thin line.

It was Aldarion who dug up more tales of his and Lucan's time across the mountains and Tilda and Sigrid listened in with interest, occasionally asking questions. They had never left the area around Esgaroth before their forced move to Dale and they were curious. It was Lucan who clarified those points, a sign of how long he had travelled with Aldarion already, almost anticipating where mortal understanding might fall short. The two of them apparently kept each other easy company, which was the only fact Thranduil knew for certain.

"We also brought you a missive from Elrond," Aldarion told him quietly while Lucan kept talking to Sigrid. Shrugging dismissively, he held his cup out to be refilled. Aldarion nodded. "I thought as much. I consider the message delivered."

"You found Elrond agreeable?" Thranduil asked, looking at his son from under hooded eyes, considering. 

Aldarion chewed contemplatively and finally answered, "Imladris is a welcoming place, to all who seek knowledge or even only a place to rest, no matter their kindred. The libraries are impressive. Elrond welcomed us, but I did not actually see much of him while we were there, but we only spent a few days at a time. They live a different life than we do."

Thranduil nodded and turned to Sigrid after she had called out to him from across the table. The feast was a loud affair with much laughter at all tables, the people enjoying themselves. Dale needed this sort of merriment within its walls, and Thranduil was content enough to help provide for some of it.

Later, after the food had been cleared off the tables again and wine and ale flowed in even greater quantity, Cúthalion came up, saying something low into Sigrid's ear at which she flushed. A few seats down at the table Duinhir caught Thranduil's eye and barely suppressed a smirk upon seeing that display of flirtation. Shaking his head Thranduil said, "Remember when you were younger," loud enough to know his son would hear. Duinhir had made quite a bit of a fool of himself when he had wooed Alairë, prince or no prince. Those two had known each other for too long for her to be impressed with his parentage.

Music started playing, a sign for people to mingle, and Bard got up to walk around and exchange a few words with several of them. Bain was on his heels, a smiling shadow who would soon be old enough to start making his own way. He had gotten a late start on his education as heir to a king, yet Thranduil was confident he would make up for it before long. Maybe Bain could come to the Woodland Realm for a while in a year or two, when Bard had settled into his reign.

Sigrid kept an eye on the proceedings, talking with Cúthalion in a low voice; her time in the Thranduil's realm was limited now, as Bard would at some point have need of her and her accumulated knowledge. She would be an invaluable advisor to her father, Thranduil knew, even though he would miss her steady company.

A long time later Bard came around to their corner and he dragged up a spare chair and sat down heavily. "Being king is exhausting," he declared.

Aldarion half turned to look at him with an amused smile and Lucan glanced at the man with one eyebrow raised, mirroring the Elf's glee. As the son—albeit a bastard—of the King of Rohan, Lucan would know about what it meant to be king and which concessions it demanded. 

Thranduil nudged Bard with a soft-booted foot under the table. "You barely know the half of it."

"Says the Elf who brought a bathtub to a battlefield," Bard countered with a smile. Before Thranduil could respond to mention that Bard had made excessive use of that tub, though, Tilda started climbing onto her father's lap. Bard pulled her up with some effort and then rested his chin on her shoulder. "You are getting too old for this," he told her quietly.

"No," she responded with the petulance of overexcitement and exceeding tiredness. She raised her hand to righten her tiara but only managed to make it worse so it sat even more skewed in her hair. Thranduil reached out and corrected it for her, stroked a thumb lightly over her temple to make her keep still. She beamed at him. "It's so pretty!"

"And Dáin couldn't even be mad anymore when he saw how happy you were," Bard murmured at her and gave her a gentle warning squeeze to prevent her from overemphasising on it. "Where's your sister?"

While Tilda pointed out where Sigrid had stepped aside with Cúthalion and was now being approached by the Dwarf just mentioned, Thranduil's eye was drawn by Aldarion. His son shot a sideways glance at Bard and Tilda and smirked. Thranduil raised an inquisitive eyebrow as to that particular reaction, but then remembered Bard's words after Aldarion had been in Dale for a few weeks that first winter, how he had seemed to know all that was relevant about the new Lord of Dale already. He hadn't paid much attention then, because that was simply Aldarion's way—and doubtlessly he had talked to Tauriel—but maybe he should have. Legolas on the other hand, just looked confused and regarded Bard and Tilda talking to each other with a tilt of his head.

Eventually Aldarion shook his head and drew Lucan's attention away from the dancers that now had appeared in the middle of the room, negotiating their way around tables and chairs until those were pushed out of the way. "If you want to dance, I think something can be arranged."

Pale complexion flushing slightly, the Rohir answered with a laugh and shake of his head. "If you care for your toes being stepped on maybe. We're better at song than dance. There is a reason we teach our women to ride and fight, it provides more stories for us to tell."

Aldarion only smiled in answer and Thranduil perceived that to be an old exchange between them. Before he could ponder it further, however, Tilda slid off Bard's lap to sit back in her own chair, and he got up but leaned in close to Thranduil. When he spoke it was low and his lips brushed against the arch of Thranduil's ear. "I need to go and be kingly, whatever the bloody sod that may mean. I'll see you later."

He nodded and as Bard walked off, he found Tilda looking at him. "What would you have to say?"

"Next we're celebrating Sigrid's wedding, right?" 

Sighing, his eyes searched for the girl and found her nodding at something Tauriel told her, Cúthalion close by her side and Dáin listening and apparently making a comment. When he was sure everything was as it should be, he told her sister, "You are a menace. Try not to tell your father, I doubt he has realised it yet."

Tilda grinned at him. Somehow she knew Bard still lived in blissful, willful ignorance of the way his daughter had chosen. 

Several hours later Thranduil was on the way back to his seat when Bard caught his eye from across the room and directed his gaze to the table. There he saw Tilda fast asleep despite the din of so many voices, head pillowed on her arms. Bard, however, seemed to be caught in a discussion with some townspeople and visitors from Esgaroth, Bain at his side. At that moment, Thranduil couldn't spot Sigrid anywhere around the room, so he walked over to Tilda and leaned down to her.

"Tilda," he said and gently shook her by the shoulder. "Wake up."

Her whole face scrunched up and she squeezed her eyes shut even more. She made a noise that clearly denied any and all cooperation. Sighing, he shook her shoulder some more until she opened her eyes. "Why?"

"Because only drunkards sleep in the feasting hall," he told her and pushed at her until she stumbled off the chair and started walking towards the exit, rubbing her eyes. Her mobility lasted exactly until they were in the corridor when she slumped against the wall again. Thranduil shook his head. "Tilda."

"No," she said through a yawn. "I can stay here."

"That really is no option for you," he told her and looked around, spotting Legolas from the corner of his eye. He had followed them, possibly hoping for the private word Thranduil had wanted to have with him, too. But it was also clear that Tilda wouldn't move another step under her own power and Thranduil shook his head before crouching down in front of her. She gave him a sleepy smile and slung her arms around his neck; when he straightened again he carried her in his arms like the little girl she had barely still been when he first met her. He felt himself starkly reminded of when his own sons had been young, too long a time ago. Legolas was still close behind him, and maybe they would indeed get a chance to talk once Tilda was home. When they cleared the hall and stepped out into the night air that already carried a hint of winter chill he tightened his arms around her and murmured, "You really are getting too old for this."

"No, am not," she told him and rested her chin on his shoulder. Not long now, he thought, and she'd insist on being grown up already. She shifted but held on to him even more and he didn't attempt to put her down. "Ada, is he the one you found in the cabbage patch?"

Thranduil's step faltered momentarily at the kinship term, but he covered it by half turning around to spot Legolas and meeting his wide-eyed stare for a second. He must have heard her speak, but now was not the time. Thranduil knew she referred to a night years ago, and while it was ludicrous to think she hadn't figured out by now that Elves were born much like Men, he still smiled. Finally he casually turned around again and told her, "Consider it our secret."

A sleepy sound of accent followed and she didn't say anything until he gently let her down on her bed, then took off her shoes and the tiara before covering her up. Her dress would be a mess of wrinkles in the morning, but that couldn't be Thranduil's concern. He caressed her forehead before getting up and turning to the door again.

Like the opposite of a shadow Legolas stood there, a pale spectre silent in the moonlight. Thranduil herded him out of the room with similarly quiet motions, their booted feet making no sound on the timbered floor. Back in the autumn night his son finally asked, "What was that about the cabbage field?"

He couldn't suppress a smirk. "That is where I told her little Elves come from."

Blinking in confusion, Legolas made to speak and then subsided. When he finally found his voice it was only to ask, "Why?"

"The girl never knew her mother and she brought something up... It would hardly have served to make her more upset than she already was. King Bard has proven himself to be a valuable ally standing between our people and the Dwarves, I would not sadden his daughter. You have fared well, however, I still would know more about it." Thranduil shook his head. In truth the issue—the alliance between Dale and the Woodland Realm, the alliance between Dale and Erebor, Thranduil's relationship with Bard's daughters and with Bard himself—was more complicated than a wine-fueled discussion after midnight merited. This was why he had tried to keep it simple. 

Narrowing his eyes, Legolas regarded him for a time. "Aldarion told me you had taken in those mortal children, I did not think it was quite like this. She calls you— "

It had been two years since the dragon had died and the Lonely Mountain been settled again by Dwarves and while Thranduil had not initially planned it, he had entangled himself quite thoroughly with Bard and his family. Two years were a span hardly worth mentioning in his long life, and even for mortal Men like Bard that time was short, yet Thranduil had felt a shift in the way he would relate to that bloodline in the future. He wondered whether he needed to talk to Tilda about their earlier exchange, as unlike what Legolas seemed to think, he couldn't claim to have earned that endearment from her before. But he would not do it now when she was sleeping and he needed to speak to Legolas far more urgently. 

"They required aid," he told his son. "They needed to be kept safe. Bard is a good leader, but he knows where his limits are and where to turn for support."

"You provide this?"

They arrived at the battlements and looked out over the empty, moonlit expanse of cropped fields outside the walls. At this, Thranduil shifted his cloak around his shoulders and regarded his son from under hooded eyes. "I would not watch a whole people go to ruin and succumb to the perils of winter for another's strife. My affections for Bard have very little to do with this. Now, Legolas."

Legolas pressed his lips together for a moment, then looked at the ground to break eye contact and nodded. Afterwards he sighed and looked back up. "I'm still not sure why you thought to send me to Imladris, for it is a grand place, but not for me. The Rangers are scattered and the numbers of the Dúnedain in the North are dwindling."

"Yes, they are. That has long been known. They have preserved the blood of Elendil, though." The mildly startled look on Legolas' face told Thranduil he had been largely unaware of this. The blood of the Men of Númenor was running thin even in the south, though Legolas had never been there to see this for himself. "Hence the importance of Strider, it will be upon him to chose his way and decide the fate of his people."

"He is a child," answered Legolas, "he is hardly of consequence."

It was not what he had expected when he had sent Legolas to find the son of Arathorn, but he knew now that his son had not seen the last of him and that land. "Young men grow older, and even for those of the line of Elendil time has run short."

Legolas acknowledged this with a nod, but it seemed to Thranduil he did it to not speak against his king. "Elrond says the time of the Elves is drawing to a close, what does he mean by that?"

That might have been part of the reason why Thranduil had sent Legolas to find Aragorn rather than Imladris—beside his certainty that they would have a profound influence on each other's lives. "Elrond has always had a more fatalistic view than many of the rest of us. Perhaps it is in his blood. While we both see how few of our realms are left, I have never shared his predilection. These woods have sheltered us and we endured all hardships here. If there is a way to survive the war to come, we will find it here."

"You think there will be war?" Legolas asked worriedly and they shared a glance before Thranduil turned around and briefly surveyed the part of the city visible to him. 

"Indubitably so." When his son still looked troubled, Thranduil shook his head. "Night encroaches, but whenever it will find us, we will be prepared. And we will rely on our allies. It is not Elrond's way though, he has grown weary of battle, I suppose."

Thranduil didn't relish battle or war, but he knew he had to do what was necessary. He always would.

For a long time Legolas was quiet, regarded the watchfires along the wall. The day Thorin had died two years ago had been his first large scale battle, scraps with Orcs and spiders notwithstanding. It apparently had left its mark, and hopefully at least had made him consider before acting rashly in the future. Thranduil would have none of his sons waste their life.

The night was growing long and Thranduil had heard many of the revellers leave the great hall, as the feast was obviously winding down. He heard Sigrid's laugh, and Bain's, a little too merry to be sober, maybe a little drunk on freely flowing wine. He was pulled from his reverie when Legolas said, "When we rushed back here, after the message from Bard arrived, Aldarion said to Lucan he could go because he knew where to return. His exact words escape me now, it was to that effect though."

"Your brother has chosen a different path," Thranduil reminded him and slowly, Legolas nodded. None of his children truly took after their parents, though he did catch glimpses of their mother in them every so often. All three had yet to learn not to throw caution to the wind, but he begrudged none of them their choices, as long as they also followed their orders. Thranduil hoped that Legolas had learned this particular lesson during his self-chosen time in exile. 

The moon was setting, plunging what was left of the night into deeper darkness, making the Men on guard huddle further into their cloaks, while the Elvish guards made no move. He saw Feren scanning the distance. The city was stocked with equal contingents, a concession to its different inhabitants. Legolas was still looking out into the east as if it held answers to his unposed questions. For several minutes Thranduil studied his son's profile, a face long committed to memory, and his heart felt unexpectedly burdened. 

Finally, Legolas turned to look at him. "I saw Tauriel. That surprised me, I did not expect—"

"Her banishment is not lifted." He refused to go through the same cycle again that had led them to this point. "Her duties are in Dale."

"Many matters seem to be now, even Duinhir says he owes the Dragonslayer a debt. And Ithril says Cúthalion will also live here before long." Thranduil chose not to dignify that with a response, though he wondered why Legolas had received that information from Cúthalion's sister rather than his friend himself. Legolas' next words made Thranduil hold on to his patience. "If Tauriel does not return, I may as well not. We both defied you together."

"You cared to retrieve her and then not to return. Let Tauriel make her way as you made yours." When he was in Dale Thranduil often saw her look over to the top of the Lonely Mountain when she was off duty, though never to the gates of Erebor. He had had enough lessons in his long life in making peace with events of the past, and seen too many of his people do the same. Everyone found their own way eventually, or faded in trying. Tauriel was strong and she would return eventually.

Legolas glanced at him and frowned. "What do you mean?"

Sighing, Thranduil turned his gaze to the stars. "Time is passing, whether we mark it or not, yet some of us choose not to for the time being. You had your reasons, so do not be mistaken about the mind of another." He turned then and headed back to the city proper and the Lord's House that resembled a true palace again, after Bard had taken his advice and finally added two more floors. He assumed Legolas had been delegated one of the chambers for guests, yet still he added, "Join us for breakfast on the morrow. The sun will be high though, Men require rest after a night of feasting."

"...us?" Legolas echoed quietly as if to himself and Thranduil smiled involuntarily. Apparently Legolas had not been in Dale long enough to be exposed to its affluent network of rumours and whispers. Thranduil had ever tolerated them also in his own realm, as it spared him many a pronouncement and helped him gauge the mood of his people. In turn, Bard was a popular ruler and knew too well from experience where oppressing the free exchange of information would lead. 

As he passed the great hall, Ithril exited and took a deep breath. When she spotted him she cleared her throat and bowed slightly. "My Lord."

"Has the feast run its course then?" Thranduil asked and saw her suppress a smile as she shook her head. Ithril had been stationed in Dale on and off over the past two years, she knew most of the people of Dale and currently acted a military liaison until her brother would settle there with Sigrid in the foreseeable future.

Now Ithril shook her head, her hair was braided back and her grey eyes sparkled with mirth. "No my Lord, certainly not. The royal family as well as King Dáin have left, though, and Feren put me on guard duty from now until noon." Now she did smile. "No one will notice should you not return."

"Indeed, Feren has?" He raised an eyebrow. "It sounds as if I would not be welcome."

"Forgive me my Lord," she said, the words alone belying the intention. Ithril didn't apologise in so many words, she let actions speak. "I merely meant to indicate that the revelers might feel … less inhibited without royal attendance. And that my Lord Thranduil might find other ways to spend the rest of the night."

Narrowing his eyes at her he stepped out of her way. "Start your watch, Ithril, before I find a place far away for you to liaise with."

"Yes, my Lord," she told him, her tone light and teasing, and hurried past to join the watch contingent on the battlements. 

He smiled and continued his way to the Lord's House. One of the guards standing left and right to the door of the palace eyed him before nodding and standing a little straighter. 

"Has the King returned?" Thranduil inquired. Perhaps Bard had taken a stroll before retiring, in which case it would be best to search for him now.

The man looked puzzled for a moment, then seemed to remember he now had a king and quickly nodded in assent. "After the turn of the hour, my Lord." Acknowledging this, Thranduil walked through the door and heard a muffled, "The Elvenking talked to me," from the guard to his companion. The man must be new to this duty rotation as Thranduil's comings and goings were usually known to those who stood this post regularly. 

The house was quiet otherwise, though Thranduil could feel the members of this household behind the doors to their rooms and others besides, as Aldarion and Lucan at least seemed to have retired already. In Bard's chamber on one of the upper floors, a lamp burned low, barely shedding enough light for the eyes of Men to see by. Bard himself sat on the mattress of the bed, his new crown in his hands, one thumb stroking over the metal of the three interwoven strands. The gold gleamed dully, but the gems sparkled even in the dim illumination. He had looked up when the door swung upon and he regarded Thranduil with narrowed eyes. 

Meanwhile Thranduil smiled and stepped towards him, took the circlet from his hands and placed it in its cushioned box. "It is to be looked at more than handled," he told Dale's new king. "Though it is Dwarvish work, your descendents will be crowned with this a thousand years hence."

"You think Dale will stand that long?" They exchanged a glance and Thranduil wondered whether Bard had pieced together more than they had discussed. He wasn't blind or dumb, of course; Thranduil had merely not sought to worry him over something that would likely not come to pass in his lifetime, but Bard cared about his city and his people. His face was open, his eyes earnest.

Thranduil shook his head and removed his own circlet to set it aside for the night. "You have strong blood in your veins, and the scions of your house will have strong allies. Whatever came to pass, we have always endured." He wouldn't make promises, yet the north had chances to stand if the south did not falter.

This, at least, Bard seemed to take at face value and dropped the topic without further ado. "Speaking of scions, how is Legolas? I did not get a chance to speak with him, busy as I was to keep you from noticing, and I saw him follow you out."

"You shall be forgiven this deception for once," Thranduil told him and sorted through some of the missives that had arrived from his realm earlier in the day. "He is well, yet still young. However I have a feeling he will not long dwell in my halls now."

The air in the room changed and when Bard next spoke his voice was cautious, "What does that mean?" When Thranduil didn't say anything—indeed thinking he had said too much already when it was merely a vague feeling—Bard continued, "Not long, that may well be several lifetimes."

"How short your mortal lives are," Thranduil mused, then shook off the notion. "Maybe he will take to the road as well."

Thankfully, Bard let the topic rest and, judging by the rustling and padding noises, he got up from the bed. "Does Aldarion always lug scrolls and tomes through the wilderness? He travels light otherwise."

"Imladris is a place of learning, and Aldarion is in the habit of contributing to my library." He absently put a letter aside that could wait until he was back in his own study. "I suppose his Rohir companion is equally sceptical as you."

The next sheet of paper was plucked from his hands and Bard trapped them in his and between their bodies when he leaned in for a kiss that tasted of wine, stubble scratching lightly. When they broke apart, Bard leaned their foreheads together and released Thranduil's hands from his to instead thread his fingers into Thranduil's hair. Short, blunt fingernails lightly scratched over his scalp and a pleasurable shudder ran down his spine. 

"I support your book collection," Bard told him, "as long as you and Sigrid don't make me read them all."

Thranduil smiled and wrapped one arm around the man's waist to pull him close, his other hand resting on the nape of his neck. "Well, if we exclude everything written in Quenya or any of the other elusive languages…" Then he chuckled when Bard's fingers tightened in his hair in silent reprimand. "What else would take the King of Dale's fancy?"

"Right now? I could think of a few ideas. Sleep is high on the list, unless I declare tomorrow entirely lost." Yet the motion of his fingers didn't still and he made no move to step away. 

"Is anything stopping you?" Thranduil inquired lazily and leaned in to claim another kiss.

After a moment Bard murmured against his lips, "I remember the Elvenking telling me to lead by example."

"And now you decide to listen to me?"

That said, Bard suddenly pulled back to look him in the eye and cracked a smirk. "Sometimes your advice has merit."

He stepped out of Thranduil's embrace then and made to disrobe. His fingers fought with the hooks of his formal clothes for a moment before finding the right angle. Arms crossed over his chest but cloak discarded, Thranduil watched Bard take off his silken tunic and fold it with an economic but careful movement. A quick look up followed and a subsequent raised eyebrow. 

"You will be a good king," Thranduil told him and that pronouncement was met with a shrug and an almost casual glance to the side.

"Do you know that or are you saying that so your faith in me won't be misplaced?" 

Sighing, Thranduil stepped up to where Bard now stood only in his breeches and then forced his eyes up by cupping his chin. "My faith in you will never be misplaced."

"Oh? Never? That's a big word, for an Elf," Bard said, but his tone was mocking and less grave than even a minute ago. 

Thranduil leaned in and placed a quick kiss on his lips before drawing back to work on his own clothes. "You have Elvish guidance, and I am reasonably sure you know better than to squander all that you have achieved. You are remarkably smart. For a mortal."

"Such faith by the most formidable Elvenking." Bard sighed with put upon gravitas and when Thranduil chuckled, he inquired, "What?"

"In Middle-earth maybe," Thranduil added with some amusement. "I assume Thingol at the very least will have some objections to that denomination. After all he was High King."

"I would hardly know about that." That was a blatant lie, since Bard knew Thranduil had grown up in that court. By now the King of Dale was hardly ignorant anymore about the affairs of the Elves and could probably easily pinpoint the current claimant of the title of High King. But that hardly was the topic now, and Thranduil used the moment to step towards Bard and draw him into a kiss that was returned with enthusiasm.

Their clothes had been discarded by now and they stumbled to the bed as if under the influence of too much drink. A sound emanated from deep in Bard's chest, part groan, part sigh when Thranduil stroked from his hip over his stomach and then lower. He broke the kiss for air even as they let themselves down on the bed; the mattress dipped under their combined weight, but the motion was familiar. 

Bard rolled them over to position himself on top of Thranduil, bracketing his head with his arms, and Thranduil could feel his inner thigh brush against Bard's knee. "Now you may tell me, are there special provisions to being king?"

"In terms of what?" Thranduil asked in turn and stroked Bard's hair out of his face, longer now, and a little more grey than two years ago. 

"I don't believe that it's just a different title to the name," Bard clarified and brushed their noses together. His gaze was hard to interpret, because though there was worry, it also spoke of mirth and not taking the worry too seriously. "How bad will it be?"

With a small sigh, Thranduil pulled him down with a hand in the nape of his neck to kiss him, used his other hand to stroke the muscles of his back, stopping just short of the swell of his buttocks and reversing the motion. "Negotiations and contracts. Arbitration of conflicts. More negotiations and contracts. The occasional skirmish or two, though I suppose you might want to make that Bain's task before long." Thranduil leaned up once more to steal another kiss, then he smirked. "Though I hear most of your neighbours are quite civilised, a case might even be made for the Dwarves as they at least have realised what Dale provides for them. Even they will not bite the hands that feeds him, quite literally."

"You hear that, do you?" Bard shifted his weight, providing just the right amount of friction to make it even more interesting, and started to trace the arch of Thranduil's ear and then bent down to kiss along his throat. "What else do you hear?"

Thranduil hummed in assent and after several moments pushed him away, raised an eyebrow in mock surprise. "I hear you are a king now. Maybe we should make use of your first night of kingship."

An amused glint appeared in Bard's eyes that was quickly replaced by something that might have been hunger. "I hear that, too. I have also been told by someone nothing much should change."

"Indeed?" Thranduil rolled them once more and used his weight to pin Bard down, letting him feel his arousal and leaned down to capture his mouth in a firm kiss.

"Indeed," Bard murmured into a minute pause for breath as one kiss slid into another. He reached between them, touches turning from teasing to much more intentional and for a while after that, neither of them said much. 

Later that night, so late it was almost morning already and Thranduil could feel the night waning and knew twilight wasn't far off, Bard was carding through his hair with slow and sleepy movements. To share warmth in the chill autumn air, and give him better access, Thranduil slung an arm around Bard's chest and tucked his head under his chin. For a second Bard roused from the doze and his slowing hands lost their rhythm, but soon went back to that state between sleeping and waking. 

Thranduil closed his eyes and listened to the slow heartbeat close to his ear, a sound intimately familiar by now, though he didn't look for sleep. When Bard's movements had stilled completely into blissful unconsciousness, Thranduil remained too restless to pursue the same state. They had extinguished the lamp in the corner and sunrise was yet too long off to even think about finding its way into the chamber. The room was silent but for their breathing. 

Slowly Thranduil eased himself out of the embrace and off the bed to slip his clothes on, then pinned a cloak around his shoulders. He would be back long before morning and it didn't have merit to wake Bard only to tell him that.

Thranduil found Cúthalion sitting on the battlements facing east and south. For a while he stood by the young archer in silence before asking quietly, "What are you holding vigil for?"

Instead of answering though, Cúthalion shot him a lopsided smile and let go of the strand of his dark hair he had been toying with. "Legolas came to speak with me. He is very confused."

"Legolas is always confused," Thranduil interjected fondly. Probably he had wanted to confirm with Cúthalion what Ithril had told him, undoubtedly those news had surprised him. Though Cúthalion was older than Legolas, the two had been close for most of their lives, and Thranduil was glad about their friendship. They had lost their mothers on the same day, with Cúthalion being the one to discover the carnage. Unlike Legolas, no one could have told him a kind tale of the events. "What did you say to him?"

"I'm not entirely sure what he was asking about, except that it was about Dale. It's not my place to speculate, though I said Dale would again be a power to be reckoned with, if everyone had their way. Well, everyone but Bard, maybe, but even he knows it." Cúthalion smiled at that and shook his head. He had always followed orders, never informed Legolas on the details of what had happened to their mothers even if maybe he would have wanted to. Thranduil knew for many years it had been wearing on the young Elf until he had found a balance of sorts and he remembered many nights like this, with talks of less happy events. A long time ago Cúthalion had been bitter about what had happened, but he had lost that streak inside himself. "I told him about Sigrid. He was happy for me, though apparently Ithril anticipated me there. He still wanted to seek Sigrid out and talk to her, get to know her better. I think he was discouraged when he saw she was close to Tauriel and Dáin."

Sigrid had learned quickly that the letting the alliances go to waste would break Dale faster than it had been re-established. She also knew Tauriel probably was her best option of a semi-permanent liaison between the two guarantor powers, for Dáin had shown kindness towards her in the past years. "Legolas has bound himself too closely to Tauriel's fate and lost his focus in the process," Thranduil told the other Elf. After a pause he continued, "Sigrid is clever."

A smile spread over Cúthalion's face now, tinged with sadness and happiness both. "My mother knew it would take a long time until I would find someone."

"As is your sister, your mother was wise in that regard." Thranduil had known her all her life, as she had been one of the first to be born in the Woodland Realm after King Oropher had settled them there. 

"She couldn't foresee her own death, though."

Thranduil exhaled slowly and looked for the dawn that was slow in coming. He would have preferred to not speak about this when the night was darkest. "Few of us can."

That statement was acknowledged with a nod; Cúthalion had lost such illusions a long time ago. "I did not expect that the one I would find would be mortal."

At that, Thranduil felt his expression harden and he asked sharply, "Do you regret it?" 

If he did, now would be the moment to dissolve the relationship and let both him and Sigrid go their own ways. Sigrid would be devastated and Bard might want to kill the Elf that had broken his daughter's heart, but Thranduil would have neither of them live with that hanging over them. But Cúthalion shook his head, kept staring into the distance. "No, of course not. Her energy and her enthusiasm, and the sheer life that speaks out of her— I have made my peace with what this means. I also have no plans to sail, this is where I belong as long as the Valar allow. If we are blessed, there will be children and they will have children and Dale will need looking out for."

Satisfied—and not altogether surprised Cúthalion shared a large part of his own sentiments—Thranduil nodded. "Before you start your family I would want to move her back here."

Cúthalion glanced at him in surprise. "I thought you would want any heirs to Bard to spend time in the Woods."

"I do," Thranduil answered. Not that Bard knew that yet, of course, but a few years' worth of fostering and education in the Woodland Realm would be beneficial to any child. In addition to that, Thranduil's halls were uniquely suited to discourage anyone from trying to disrupt the bloodline. "But for certain situations, Sigrid will need her own people. And Bard will need her as well, she has accumulated far too much knowledge by now. We will talk about another relocation when the time comes. She has a dowry, are you aware of this? I personally wrested it from the Dwarves."

"You and King Dáin insulted each other until you reached an agreement, you mean. What use do I have for gold?" Though the question was valid, Cúthalion seemed curious. 

"None," Thranduil told him with a smirk, "which is why I'll suggest a better use to her." 

While Cúthalion narrowed his eyes in question, Thranduil turned to go. The time for contemplation was past and the new day would bring a new time for Dale. "Your vigil for this night is over."

Tilting his head, Cuthalion answered, "My Lord," but Thranduil didn't wait for him to move before making his way back to the bed that waited for him.

Bard was still fast asleep when Thranduil slipped under the blanket with him, though he rolled towards the new weight on the mattress. Parental instincts honed by three children made him half-open an eye and make a faint sound in inquiry, but Thranduil merely brushed his lips over his cheek and settled. "The sun is long to rise, the night is dark, so go to sleep," he murmured and slid into unconsciousness himself when Bard's arm brushed against his chest. 

It felt as if he had just closed his eyes, though he could feel the sun high in the sky, by the time he was somewhat rudely woken by Legolas' voice and knocking. "Ada, Sigrid sent me to get you for breakfast, and her father, have you any idea where his chambers are because I—" The door had been flung inwards by the time Thranduil had pried open his eyes and Legolas broke off suddenly only to start a second later, "I did not expect this."

The door slammed back shut and Bard stirred next to him with a groan. "I always thought Sigrid was not meant to be the mean sibling."

In this state of consciousness Thranduil was unsure whether Bard was aware of the implications of that utterance, but something else struck a chord first and he snorted. "After being raised by the most uppity man in all of Esgaroth? I'm surprised you accept my authority when you seem bent on fighting it tooth and nail whenever you come across it."

Propping himself up on one elbow, Bard squinted at him. "You're reasonable. You didn't let us starve but succored us, in more ways than one. That counts for a lot."

Thranduil shot him a fond smile and reached out to brush back some strands of hair that had fallen over Bard's shoulder. "How glad I am you find praise for my services," he said and put his head back on the pillow, fingers still lingering on the warm skin of Bard's neck. In turn he shot him an exasperated look—that Thranduil returned in all innocence—before taking his hand and threading their fingers together. They were quiet for a little while and Bard looked to be nodding off once more when Thranduil spoke again, "We had better go down, I guess."

"Are you joking?" Bard answered, still far from truly awake. "I ceded the household to her when she was not yet ten, that was easier than fighting her on it. If we don't go she's coming up with a bucket of water."

That sounded like Sigrid indeed and Thranduil decided that would be taking it too far with all of his children in the house and privy to those kinds of actions. So he leaned in regretfully and kissed the corner of Bard's mouth, then gave him a little shove to wake him before disentangling his hand and pushing away to get out of bed. Though Bard grabbed for him to pull him close once more, Thranduil refused to let himself be drawn in and made his way to the small bathing chamber. Dale could take advantage from its lower elevation relative to the river and waterwheels to facilitate running water to most of the houses, the necessary reconstruction had assured that. Though so far all the water was cold, Thranduil had plans to strongly suggest to Bard to make use of the geothermal activity of the region and supply the city with hot water. 

After a quick but thorough wash he returned to the bedroom and pulled on fresh clothes. He could feel eyes on himself and when he turned to look, Bard was watching him with one eye open, his face otherwise buried in the pillow. 

"Taking in the view?" Thranduil asked and smoothed a wrinkle out of the silk of his tunic.

At this Bard huffed a laugh and finally sat up, hair mussed and one eyebrow raised. "I enjoyed the view quite a bit more without all the fine clothes."

"Well, that would be an interesting breakfast," Thranduil allowed and trailed his hand over Bard's naked shoulder and neck before leaving him to his own morning ablutions. At the top of the stairs he met Lucan, bleary-eyed and clearly hungover, and equally clearly aware that not following the orders given by the lady of the house would be a mortal offense. The Rohir nodded at him and then grimaced as his brain decided that had been a bad idea. "I would think you should be used to the vintage by now."

"Still can't outdrink Elves," Lucan murmured in complaint and shuffled down the stairs with his eyes half closed. "You have too much practice."

"Perhaps you should stop trying," Thranduil suggested as they reached the lower landing. Metabolisms of Elves and Men being what they were, Thranduil had heard similar utterances from mortals over the ages. He had little sympathy for Lucan, who had spent enough years at Aldarion's side by now to know better. 

Lucan merely grumbled in disagreement, "My blood is too proud to accept that," and turned towards the noise from one of the rooms in the back. Thranduil chuckled, pleased that despite forced exile and an order for execution looming Lucan had not lost his inherent pride, and followed him.

Normally when Thranduil visited Dale, even when he was on an official diplomatic visit, meals outside the public eye were a small affair. Not quiet, because while Bard's children were growing up they were not making any less ruckus, but never had there been all of their children and those who belonged with them in one place. Cúthalion was the only one who caught his eye briefly and tilted his head in acknowledgement while listening to Bain, the barest concession to their difference in status. The volume of noise was considerable, between all of them talking to someone else. All of them except Lucan, who sat staring miserably into the bowl of porridge in front of him, Aldarion's hand resting on the back of his neck while the Elf nodded at a question from Duinhir across from them.

Thranduil blew out a breath and shook his head at the display. After last night's feast porridge was plain fare, although something he was far too used to by now. He sat down in the chair at the edge of the table that had been left free for him, next to Sigrid who shot him a smile. 

"Legolas found you?"

Said Elf was a few seats down from them, giving monosyllabic answers about his travels to his sister-in-law. Alairë elbowed him gently and teasingly threatened him with abduction the same as Duinhir had done last night. 

For a moment Thranduil regarded Sigrid with a haughty glance that didn't seem to faze her at all. "I hope you know I can hardly approve of that kind of action."

"If he wasn't who he is you would compliment me for thinking of it," she told him with a shrug and reached for the jar of honey to drizzle some over her cooling food. 

He regarded her mildly just as he spotted Bard stepping in from the corner of his vision. "I would not allow anyone to make a mockery of you, either."

"I didn't mock him," she explained and shook her head. "Call it doing all of you a favour."

Before Thranduil could ask for details, Bard set his own bowl on the table and said loud enough for all to hear, "Good morning and it is good to see we lost none of you to the consequences of drink—" An audible groan sounded from the other end of the table and Bard laughed. "Or at least that all of you were sufficiently afraid of my daughter to make an appearance. Lucan, I would suggest an ale to cure that hangover, but I have a feeling we would be faced with Elvish objections." He raised a placating hand when five stares were directed at him, although—familiar with the idea by now—Thranduil merely smiled and shook his head. "So I shall leave you to suffer in peace or give you leave to find your bed again."

Lucan merely waved off and slowly sipped some tea while Bard smirked and sat down. 

Conversation started again and Sigrid nudged Thranduil. "You approve of that?"

"Your father is a king," Thranduil pointed out to her, aware of the curious glance Bard shot at them. Instead of answering, she ate a spoonful of her porridge and smirked at him. She certainly had grown up over the last few years and he answered with a smile. "Even though he might deny it."

Next to him Bard sighed. "You made your point. Besides, not all of us have three millennia to get used to the idea."

Thranduil turned and their eyes locked for a heartbeat before Bard's expression softened into a smile and under the table Thranduil pressed one booted foot against his calf. It was a reminder of their discussion last night and Bard gave a small nod signalling that he understood. 

From the corner of his eye Thranduil caught Bain rolling his eyes. He shot him a glance, but he just shrugged unrepentantly. At the very least Thranduil stood to never be bored by Bard's children.

That assessment proved true once more when Tilda's face lit up a few moments later and she turned to her father, exclaiming in an excited voice, "Da, did you know Ada found Legolas on the cabbage field?"

The effect was instantaneous and couldn't have been better orchestrated by practice, for the whole table fell silent in the fraction of a heartbeat. Only a long lifetime of experience let Thranduil ignore all of this completely and continue his breakfast. He had made up his mind the previous night to talk to Tilda about this, but the opportunity had not presented itself and now it clearly was too late. She was sneaky, using her status as the youngest to get her way while pretending to be innocence personified. Thranduil had long stopped buying into it, but Bard at least was blinded by his parental belief that his children could do no wrong.

The silence dragged on, but he noticed Bard frowning at him minutely before he turned to his daughter. "I heard about that indeed. Tilda—" He reconsidered and sighed before addressing the table at large. "Does anyone else have something to say?"

While Thranduil could feel the eyes of his own sons on him, curious and inquiring, it was Sigrid who eventually ventured, "He's also not taking you to the Undying Lands, because apparently mortals don't go there. Or if they did they would still die, so it's a wasted effort. Even though Elvish custom you are married and at least one Elf princess managed to sneak in her mortal husband." When he found Thranduil looking at her she shrugged as if that had not been a monumental feat, even in the First Age when the Valar had still taken notice of events in Middle-earth. "You know I read."

None of those words were not for Bard's benefit though, as Thranduil saw her take Cúthalion's hand and squeeze it; she was letting him know she was aware of her choice just as much as he was of his. This way she also showed it to those who cared about the two of them.

Bard seemed momentarily baffled, but then cleared his throat. "Well that's a relief then," he answered in his driest tone and looked around the table. When no one spoke up, he resumed his breakfast, though Aldarion kept looking in his direction with a small smile for a moment longer. Then he nudged his younger brother on his right and made a snarky remark about cabbage patches. 

For a second Thranduil locked eyes with Bard, who smiled fleetingly and pressed his calf a little more into the touch under the table. It seemed everyone was aware of their choices this morning.

After a time, and much teasing, the various members of their families started to drift away from the table; Duinhir and Alairë would be riding for their own home this day, Aldarion and Lucan would stay in Dale until the end of the month, the girls had no need to pack anything, and Legolas had some decisions to make. Eventually, only Bard and Thranduil were left, the way one of Bard's calves was now pressed even more snugly against Thranduil's not quite an accident. 

"You knew?" Thranduil asked, confident Bard would be able to make the connection to his daughters' earlier words. Elvish marriage customs being what they were in comparison to those of Men, that revelation should maybe have been more surprising than it apparently had been. Even so Thranduil still subscribed to the old adage of Doriath that nothing was official until the whole family and the court had been told about it, something that his people had never seen eye to eye in with the mighty Noldor. 

Bard shot him a disparaging glance and a lopsided smile. "I have been living next to an Elf realm all my life, and with enough of your kind here for the past few years," he explained. "You might have noticed children in Dale that show a mixed parentage. Besides, I had a … talk with Cúthalion a while ago in which he made some assurances."

"I almost feel bad for him." Part of what made Bard a good ruler was his single-mindedness, but that intensity was even more pronounced when something concerned his children. Thranduil could vividly imagine what had transpired between him and his future son-in-law. 

Bard shook his head. "Don't," he advised. "He deserved all of it. He mentioned you had spoken with him, though I suppose that might have been more the Eldar view on things." They exchanged a glance, but Thranduil neither confirmed nor denied anything. Bard nodded and rubbed his eyes. "I'll talk to Tilda, I'm not sure why she called you … what she called you."

At this Thranduil shook his head. "Judging by the absolute lack of reaction by anyone else, I suppose the two of us were the only ones who were surprised." Except Legolas last night, who had been more than mildly shocked, but he had the viable excuse to have never gotten to know the girls properly. "It matters little. Leave it be."

Narrowing his eyes, Bard eventually conceded, "Very well." He took another sip of tea and held the cup in his hands to soak up its heat. The house was warmed by low fires and a clay oven on every floor, but the autumn morning was chill enough already to hint at a strong winter to come. Thranduil knew it was descending from the north already, the paths would be impassable for a long time this year. "What can I expect next, once my city has gotten rid of its collective hangover?"

Before Thranduil could even draw breath to answer, the door was opened and Bain stuck his head back inside, bringing cold air with him. He spotted them still at the table and heaved an annoyed sigh. "Da, there's a strange Elf at the gate, asking to meet the King of Dale. He talks funny and he's prettier than our Elves, if you can believe it." He frowned. "I've never seen the like before, he's as blond as gold and shiny, somehow. He has a message for you, too, Ada."

Of course Elrond would have to meddle in affairs not his own and wouldn't rely on birds or even Aldarion to relay his messages anymore. Naturally he would send one of his own people next. "Glorfindel," Thranduil huffed, not even surprised Bain would have instantly adopted the kinship term when no one hadn't protested Tilda using it.

His message delivered, Bain made to retreat again, no doubt to watch the strange Elf some more. Thranduil had to admit that Glorfindel in, all his re-born glory with the low of Valinor still about him, presented an interesting sight to those not used to it. But then something seemed to occur to Bain and he raised an eyebrow at them. "Also, I think you should know that the two of you are worse around each other than Sigrid and Cúthalion. It's little wonder everyone talks, and I could have lived without knowing how much Elves gossiped." With that said he slammed the door shut behind him and left them in the false quiet of the room. 

Slowly Bard directed his gaze back at Thranduil, ignoring his son's last comment entirely. "I take it you know him?"

"Glorfindel? Yes. Unfortunately. Even Mandos refused to keep him longer than strictly necessary." Regretfully he disentangled their legs and got up. "He also is far too powerful to be left waiting too long. This is part of being king as well, the emissaries you receive will be of a different grade. However, Glorfindel will likely bear a message from Elrond for now, nothing more."

All too often appearances were half of what being a ruler was about, something he had tried to impress on Bard over the past years. They were dressed in clothes that were sufficiently presentable, but both of them would need further signs of the position they held. As they climbed the stairs to retrieve their respective crowns, Bard sighed quietly. "What might he want? Is this really necessary?"

"It is. What might who want, Elrond? Make a nuisance of himself, disguised as greeting and congratulations to you, and some snide comment to me no doubt." Thranduil turned his head and saw Bard scowl at him. "You have no need to worry, Glorfindel has no reason to harm you. You have no need for me to stand with you even."

He reached the upper landing and Bard caught up with him after a few seconds, then put a warm hand to the small of Thranduil's back for a brief moment before it dropped away. "What if I want you to stand with me?"

Thranduil hummed in contemplation, taking in the lopsided smirk on the man's face. Shooting him a falsely condescending glance and softening it with a smile he said, "I guess that can be arranged."

For a moment he considered letting Glorfindel wait, simply because it would have been Bard's prerogative as King of Dale, but then it didn't serve to provoke pettiness in the future. It was time to collect their crowns and talk to Elrond's ill-timed messenger. 

"Crowns," Bard grumbled with such disdain that it made Thranduil laugh outright, "whoever thought of _that_ kind of display?"


End file.
